


Grandcats, Mine

by green_violin_bow, Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kittens, M/M, Mycroft Becomes A Grandma, Mycroft's Cats, Sherlock Hates Cats, T-Rated for Impure Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 19:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: "They don't associate with scruffy London alley cats, do they?" asks Greg, bending down to look at Mycroft over Skype. He jerks his head to the cats. "These pampered ladies?"While Mycroft is away, he leaves his two cats with their reluctant Uncle Sherlock for the week. Persephone and Diana Holmes enjoy their new-found freedom enormously—and by the time they come home, a happy arrival is to be expected.Cat midwifery is not exactly Mycroft's forte. Luckily, on the night the kittens arrive, a distressed Mycroft finds himself with an unlikely helper.





	Grandcats, Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This story developed out of head-canon trading on Tumblr, which we've left preserved in situ for your reading enjoyment. Thanks to everybody who followed the story as it originally developed - enjoy! <3

 

 

**green-violin-bow**

Mycroft leaves his cats with Sherlock and John while he's away at a summit.

 

**mottlemoth**

They're both girls and they're spoiled to fuck. They get new collars for Christmas every year. The collars match Mycroft's living room decor.

 

**green-violin-bow**

Mycroft actually didn't want a Persian, because their grumpy expressions put him off. But Anthea made him read the story on the shelter's website (her owner died, and she'd been in the shelter for three years), and he felt so bad for her he told Anthea to get her immediately.

His dry-cleaning company and cleaning service wage a relentless war against cat hair. It is a testament to their success that Sherlock actually had no idea that one of Mycroft's cats was longhaired, until it was in his flat…

 

**mottlemoth**

Persephone (who used to be called Fluffy, but has taken to the new name very well) hated being groomed at first. Mycroft saw it as a tedious task to be done, and bought the most efficient brush and set aside a time every night to do it. After colleagues started asking about the lacerations on his hands, he considered just paying for an expensive groomer - but then, one night, tired after yet another minister has ignored his advice and then come to him to fix the fall-out, he finds himself just lying in an armchair with Persephone flopped on his lap. Wondering, he carefully takes the brush from the side and just gently removes a few of her tummy tangles - petting her with it, loosening them out. It takes nearly an hour. He sleeps better that night than he has in weeks.

Diana keeps bringing him mice because she's decided he's a terrible hunter. She never sees Mycroft eat, so clearly the man needs help. The first one he ever found beside his bed was the most horrifying thing that had ever passed the door of his house.

Then when he skypes from the summit, and hears from John what Sherlock discovered as he put on his slipper this morning, he's suddenly rather proud of his little huntress.

 

**green-violin-bow**

While they're on Skype, Greg arrives to lay down the law about Sherlock and John not turning up at the Yard to give their statement on a case concluded the previous day.

He laughs. "Oh, Christ, my great-aunt had one of those. They look like they ran into a wall. Why's it here?"

John snorts, and Sherlock smirks. "That is Persephone. Mycroft's – I suppose one might loosely say ‘cat'. Don't touch it. It's full of hatred."

Mycroft lifts his chin proudly on Skype, and attempts not to allow the corners of his mouth to turn up when his Persephone deigns to allow the DI to stroke behind her regal ear.

Sherlock stares at Lestrade with ill-concealed fury. "The hell-beast likes you," he sneers.

 

**mottlemoth**

"Always had moggies growing up," Greg says with a grin, tickling gently in a circle and rumpling the soft excess of fur. "Not pedigree showstoppers like this… cost a fortune, did she?"

"Actually, she's from a shelter - isn't she, Mycroft?" John asks the laptop, as - in his arms - Persephone performs a rather perfect mirror of her owner, slowly lifting her chin to permit access to the luxurious fluff beneath.

Greg, ever dutiful, obeys.

"Had you pegged as a dog person…" he admits to the man now watching in restrained delight from several thousand miles away.

It's at this point that Diana arrives with a pigeon for Sherlock's dinner.

The pigeon isn't particularly thrilled to have been picked for the honour, and there follows a scene that Greg Lestrade will not forget as long as he lives. It takes about an hour to get rid of all the feathers. He feels bad for laughing so hard when it first kicked off, so he stays to help out.

As they're all calming down afterwards with tea, Mycroft reappears on Skype.

"Might I ask," he says, "where she acquired a pigeon? What was one doing in your flat?"

"Pigeons tend to live outside, Mycroft," Greg says, unable to help himself. Diana stretches in his lap and presents her tummy for his fingers, looking terribly pleased with herself. "They've got better access to the sky that way."

A silence falls.

"What was she doing outside?" Mycroft intones. His voice is suddenly steel. "They are indoor cats."

John bites his tongue. He leans across to Sherlock, lowering his voice.

"Your bedroom window - it's not, by any chance…?"

A second silence ensues.

Greg shrugs. "They're both fixed though, aren't they?" he says. "What's the problem? Let them play outside a bit."

A third, and final, silence falls.

"Oh… right," mumbles Greg.

 

**green-violin-bow**

"They don't associate with scruffy London alley cats, do they?" asks Greg, bending down to look at Mycroft over Skype. He jerks his head to the cats. "These pampered ladies?"

There's a fractional hesitation, and then Mycroft pulls his shoulders back slightly. He raises an eyebrow. It must be a trick of the colour adjustment on screen that his cheeks seem to tint, just a little. "Certainly not."

"Shame. Cats aren't made to live behind glass." A short, quiet moment. "Witness the pigeon."

Sherlock, eyes narrowed, looks between the DI and the screen. "We all witnessed the pigeon, Gareth. We'll be witnessing its disgusting greasy wing-prints for the next two years." He leans forward, filling the camera with his own face. "I do not expect to be bothered with tiresome requests from your office for at least as long, Mikey."

 

**mottlemoth**

Having slurs made upon the virtue of his cats by Greg Lestrade provokes a number of reactions in Mycroft, none of which he's prepared to deal with over Skype - nor with an audience.

Watson now wears the bewildered look of a man unsure which part of this strange situation he should concentrate the most on not noticing. Sherlock, as ever, is being unbearable; and one or the other of Mycroft's Preciouses (a name they only ever get in the utter privacy of his home) is quite possibly With Child at this very moment, thanks to the predatory attentions of some opportunistic inner-city alley skank.

At least, Mycroft thinks, he didn't just spend an hour scrubbing pigeon shit out of Sherlock's armchair.

"Do not call me that," he snaps. "The state of that flat is almost entirely down to your strange and disorganised mind, dear brother. If you've now augmented it with pigeon debris, it is because of your neglectful attitude towards my cats. Go and close that window immediately."

As Sherlock heaves a sigh and leaves sight of the camera, Mycroft realises Lestrade is now fussing Diana - scruffling his fingers through her tummy fur, playing with her.

She's batting at his hand with delight, her claws sheathed.

"Who had some fun for once, huh?" he's saying. "Who's having loads of fun on holiday with her Uncle Sherlock? You are, you little hussy. Yes, you are."

 

**green-violin-bow**

"Fun, Detective Inspector?" asks Mycroft, glacially. John takes a quick half-breath in and grimaces slightly. "I must confess that my definition of ‘fun' does not include coming home to find an enormous litter of kittens in my shoe closet."

Greg grins, shooting Mycroft an amused look.

"Shoe closet?" asks John on the inhale, raising both eyebrows. His voice is clearly not intended to carry as far as the laptop microphone.

"Naturally," says Mycroft, crisply.

"Should've got 'em done, then, Mycroft," says Greg, with a smile. "Cats will be cats."

Mycroft purses his lips crossly. "If Sherlock had not –"

"Where's your summit, then?" Greg cuts across him.

Mycroft's long fingers flit to his tie, making a minute adjustment. After a moment, he says, "Copenhagen."

"Ah, nice," grins Greg. "Not sure if you'll get any time off, but there's this great pizza place in the city – can't remember the name, but it's in the red light district –"

John snorts. "What were you doing in the red light district? Dirty ba–"

"Oi – no –" Greg's eyes flit sideways to the screen again.

 

**mottlemoth**

_Heaven help us._ A pizza place in the red light district. Mycroft shudders to think.

And now, to top it all, he's receiving Feline Management Advice from a man who is himself a dark-eyed alley cat in human form. If he were present, Mycroft would swat Lestrade's hands away from the underbelly of his wayward Abyssinian before he could corrupt her any further.

"Yes, thank you, inspector… I'm sure you have comprehensive knowledge of Amsterdam's choicest public health hazards. I believe I'll stick to room service."

A muffled, twinkling chime tugs John's attention from the screen. He shifts enough to retrieve his phone from his pocket, careful not to dislodge the cat who's just settled to sleep against his jumper, as Greg protests at length that his mate's fortieth birthday trip to Copenhagen was entirely clean and legal.

_My bed looks like one of the wretched creatures has exploded on it. They have rolled in here on purpose John._

John bites down hard on the side of his tongue. _Its fine. Just sleep in mine tonight. Coming back down? x_

_I am cleaning pigeon off my possessions. Could take some time. Kindly tell my brother that his fleabags are strumpets and Gareth is having them next time._

John bites down a little harder.

He's not telling Mycroft that.

 

 

**green-violin-bow**

 

[19:48] You will be pleased to hear, Detective Inspector, that Diana's episode of ‘fun' while staying with my brother and Dr Watson has indeed led to an imminent litter of kittens. MH

[20:13] Aw! Hope you've cleared out your shoe closet. Unless you're planning to take her to a caternity hospital. G

[20:16] Detective Inspector. MH

[20:18] What? Not keen on jokes, Mycroft? G

[20:21] Perhaps I should have been, had I detected one. MH

[20:24] Ah, well, maybe you should leave the detecting up to me. How imminent are these kittens anyway? G

[20:31] According to the veterinary practice, very. MH

[20:33] You realise I have to come and see them? G

[20:57] If you wish, Lestrade. MH

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Two Months Later**

 

It looks like Sherlock is on another of his ID-pinching streaks again. Greg loses three badges in a month before he makes the connection.

This time, having slyly orchestrated a minute alone with the famous coat, Greg recovers two of his badges, a British Library staff pass, a locker key from a rugby club in Ealing, a licence saying Sherlock is permitted to conduct marriages in registered Unitarian chapels, and a gold-rimmed membership card for The Diogenes Club.

That night, just after nine, Greg heads round.

He's unexpected, but with a flash of his newly-retrieved badge, the security man at the gate lets him through.

It takes a minute for Mycroft to answer the front door. Greg finds himself rather hoping that Mycroft feels obliged to ask him in for tea. He fancies a cheeky poke around the guy's house.

But when Mycroft answers the door, looking thoroughly flustered and unhappy, Greg feels his chest give a twinge. This is clearly a bad time, with bells on.

"Christ," he says, studying the distressed expression. Mycroft is as pale as a St Bart's morgue sheet. "I, uh… got this off Sherlock… think it might be yours."

He offers out the membership card.

"They probably know who you are by now, but… oi - are you alright? What's wrong?"

 

* 

 

"Seriously, Mycroft, you look like shit."

"Oh, thank you indeed, Detective Inspector." Mycroft's voice lacks its usual bite. He twitches the Diogenes card from between Greg's fingers, and runs it, end over end, through his own.

"Sorry – you know what I mean. Christ, you look like you've seen a ghost. What's going on?"

Mycroft presses his lips together. "Diana – she is –" he hesitates, the breath catching in the back of his throat.

Greg's eyes widen. "Oh shit – the kittens? Are they here?"

Mycroft half-shakes his head. "No." He glances briefly at Greg, then away. "Her labour has certainly started, but I believe it is only in the early stages."

Greg raises his eyebrows and makes a whistling noise through his teeth. "Bloody hell." He hesitates for a moment. "Look – you alright, yeah? You're very pale."

Mycroft gives a wry, humourless smile. "I think it is safe to say that this situation is not one I ever expected to find myself in, nor one I feel equipped to deal with. I was about to ring the veterinary surgery."

Greg huffs amusement. "D'you want me to come and have a look at her?" he asks. "The vets probably won't help, if there's nothing out of the ordinary."

Mycroft eyes him, standing firm in the doorway of his home. Then, slowly, he stands back, hand on the door. "Thank you, Detective Inspector," he says, guardedly, as Greg steps inside.

"I reckon we might go with ‘Greg' in this situation," grins Greg. "Don't you think?"

Mycroft's flicker of a smile is brief, but it's there. "Perhaps so."

Greg pushes off his shoes, and takes off his coat. A little awkwardly, Mycroft takes it from him, and hangs it next to his own.

"Where is she then?" asks Greg.

Mycroft sighs. "I had prepared an area for her in the living room," he says, motioning to a corner as they pass through the large apartment. A comfortable-looking, cushioned basket stands in a nest of pillows and blankets. "She appears to have spurned it, however, in favour of my wardrobe."

Greg only realises what that means as Mycroft opens the door – his bedroom. _Christ._ He tries to keep his face impassive as he darts glances at the decor. God knows what he'd expected, but a light, white-and-beige room with accents of deep blue-grey was emphatically not it. _Professionally decorated? Probably, but it doesn't feel impersonal, like a hotel room. God, who'd've thought you'd spend the evening in Mycroft Holmes's bedroom? For Christ's sake keep that thought off your face, Greg Lestrade_ –

‘Wardrobe' is a rather loose description for the huge walk-in closet full of beautiful, _beautiful_ suits. Large though it is, it currently seems very full of Diana, who is pacing up and down, yowling insistently. Greg doesn't go in, just stands in the doorway with Mycroft.

Mycroft bites his bottom lip, looking down at the little cat. "She simply will not settle," he murmurs, miserably. "And she must be in pain –"

Greg's hand on his arm startles him. "Come on," says Greg. "As far as I know, this is normal. Have you got any whisky or anything? You look like you could do with a drink. I'll look up some stuff about cat labour while we do that."

"Det–" Mycroft glances up, and hesitates. _"Greg_ – I have of course already informed myself on the usual stages of cat labour –"

"Thought you might've," grins Greg. "Still. Come on. How about that drink, hmm?"

Reluctantly, Mycroft nods, and leads the way back out of his bedroom.

"Yeah, this is totally normal," says Greg, thumbing his way down another article. He takes a sip of fine, smoky whisky, and looks up to where Mycroft sits, blank-eyed and pale, on the sofa. "Oi," says Greg, gently, leaning forward. "She'll be alright." He gives Mycroft an encouraging smile. "We'll –" he pauses, and clears his throat slightly. "You just need to give her quiet and privacy, and go and check on her occasionally. See that each kitten and placenta is coming out normally."

The word ‘placenta' was possibly a poorly-chosen one. Mycroft's eyes widen and he takes a gulp of whisky. Greg tries to suppress a smile.

"I – I wonder – perhaps you could –" Mycroft presses his lips together, seeming to abandon the sentence. He drops his eyes and crosses his legs.

There's a short pause. "I – haven't got anywhere else to be, tonight, if –" says Greg, tentatively.

 

* 

 

After half an hour, the patient settles a little - not a great deal, which is no surprise - but some of the previous agitation lapses into quietness, and Greg is glad to see the beginnings of a strangely purposeful calm. Breathing becomes more measured. Everything seems to be at least fine for now, and proceeding as well as Greg could hope.

So with Mycroft alright, Greg goes to check on the cat.

He performs this check under the guise of a quiet trip to the bathroom, at which point he also queries something casually on his phone. _It usually takes between two and six hours for the entire litter to be delivered._ Fine, Greg thinks. It could take them a little bit past three o'clock in the morning, at the latest. Of all the things to be doing at three AM, playing doula to Mycroft Holmes's cat isn't quite what he ever expected from life - but he's always been a laid-back kind of man. He enjoys the twists and turns.

He washes his hands, dries them on a ludicrously soft white towel, then slips back into Mycroft's bedroom. They left the closet door ajar so they could keep an eye on things without disturbing her. Greg positions himself discreetly at the open door. He takes a good look, and a small smile crosses his face. He returns idly to the living room.

"Did you teach her to open drawers," he asks, as he sits back down, "or did she figure it out herself?"

The rim of whiskey bottle clinks sharply against the lip of the glass; Mycroft looks up, concerned.

 _"Oh!"_ he says at last, comprehending. "Has she - where precisely - "

"Well, I couldn't be sure from the door, but I think it's your sock drawer. By the way, congratulations. You're a grandma."

Greg's almost tempted to shake him by the hand. Mycroft's eyes widen at once to the size of coins. Before he can drop it Greg quickly takes it the bottle, but Mycroft barely seems to notice it leaving his hands. He hurries from the room, his face mottled with a strange combination of both pale and flushed at once.

Greg follows, smiling all over his face; he joins Mycroft at the closet door.

In silence, their shoulders touching, they stand and watch Diana licking vigorously at the damp, tiny little person who's just been born amongst Mycroft's socks. Mycroft's trembling a little, and Greg can feel him urgently wanting to look in two completely opposite directions - he wants to take his eyes away from the blood and the fragility of it all, but he can't stop staring at that tiny, squirming little shape.

Greg suspects he's never seen something newborn before.

Diana's doing gorgeously - breaking the amniotic sac, cleaning it away with determined strokes of her tongue, nuzzling the little one to start breathing. She's doing everything right.

There's a sudden pause, as the two men become aware of the powerful moment they're sharing - and of their shoulders, gently touching.

Greg's professional instincts nudge him to try humour - to scale this down a little.

"Relax," he says. "You can buy new socks. Just wear your holiday flip flops to the office tomorrow."

Mycroft stiffens a little. "I'm - concerned for her _welfare_ \- I'm not fussing over my - "

"Hey… sorry. I won't make jokes. Just trying to unwind you a bit." Greg looks properly into his eyes, and he gives Mycroft a smile - honest and open. "You're doing great. Genuinely. This is a big deal. You're doing much better than you think. D'you want to go sit down again? I think you're due another dose of Glendalough."

Mycroft's eyes flicker slightly.

"Or… we can stay in here, if you want? Keep an eye on her?" A long career in police work has all gone towards preparing Greg for this moment - _this_ moment right here, and the ability to propose they relocate to Mycroft's bedroom without the jump he feels in his stomach getting anywhere near his face. "I'll - go get the whiskey, alright? Should be forty-five-minutes-ish before the next's born. We can breathe for a while."

Mycroft's nod covers his faint swallow. "Yes," he decides. "Yes, alright…" He drifts, almost without thinking, to the bed, sits down on the end of it, and lapses into quiet thought.

When Greg returns, he catches the back end of Mycroft pushing his hands slowly over his face to calm himself - up into his hair, scrunching it just a little. Those long fingers.

"I… think I may owe you rather a debt, Greg," he says, as Greg sits next to him on the end of the bed, "before the night is out."

Greg smiles a little, handing him the tumblers.

Mycroft holds them as Greg pours.

"S'fine," Greg says, glancing at Mycroft through his eyelashes. The splash of the amber liquid feels like a celebration. "This'll make a good story one day."

Relief - and whiskey - are kicking in. Mycroft's lips quirk in a brief but genuine flash of humour. He exhales with it, a huff, dangerously close to a laugh. His eyes flitter into Greg's.

"Mm. Quite the tale." He raises one eyebrow.

 _"Christ,"_ breathes Greg. "Please tell me that wasn't a ‘tail' pun. Are you sure you want to open those gates? Because I'm warning you, I've got three nieces. Terrible uncle jokes on tap."

"I have just become a grandmother," Mycroft remarks, as Greg puts the bottle on the floor. He hands Greg a tumbler. "I believe I can be permitted a little ribaldry for once. _Sláinte."_

"Cheers," grins Greg. Their glasses clink.

 

 

*

 

They drink quietly for a few moments. Mycroft, suddenly a little awkward, clears his throat. "Three nieces?" he asks.

"Mm," smiles Greg. "My sister's kids. Three, six and eight."

Mycroft lifts his chin a little in acknowledgement, clearly unsure how much he should ask. He takes refuge in another sip of whisky.

"First time something like this's happened to you, then?" asks Greg, gently.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but his huff of amusement is genuine. _"Absolutely,"_ he says, with emphasis. "It is not, for you?"

Greg grins. "My Gran's cat had kittens when I was little, while I was staying with her for a while. I wasn't allowed anywhere near 'em, of course. Too loud and clumsy. She'd've had my hide if I'd tried to pick one of 'em up while they were so small." He smiles, savouring a slow sip of whisky. His eyes fix absently in the distance. "With Mum not being around, after – and Dad did seasonal work. So I used to go and stay with her – Gran – most summers. Most of the village were half-convinced she was a witch, I think." He comes back to himself, and swirls the whisky in the tumbler, meets Mycroft's eyes briefly, and looks away again. "Saw her bring a lamb back from the dead, once. Or I thought it was dead, anyway."

Mycroft makes a tiny, prompting noise, as he sips his whisky.

"Drinking my hot milk in the kitchen with her, before bed, and I hear her make this noise at the window – she's washing up, and the curtain's not drawn yet, even though it's dark – and suddenly she's pulling on boots at the back door, and she's out in the rain. And when she gets back in she's just got an armful of wet wool and legs, and its head lolling down, and I only just had time to realise it's a lamb before she's put the whole thing in the Raeburn and closed the door." He chuckles slightly. "I was so shocked – and she sees my expression and says ‘it's only the warming oven, lad,'" and laughs, and next thing she's on the phone to the local farmer." He takes a gulp of whisky. "I begged, but she wouldn't let me stay up. In the morning, there was a lamb yelling in our kitchen."

Mycroft feels himself smile, and finishes his whisky. "Your sister was also there?" he asks, and he is not sure why.

Greg nods. "Yeah. She's a bit younger though – just a couple of years – so Gran'd already made her go to bed by then. She was so mad when I told her about it in the morning. Probably half of it was lies, by that point," he grins.

"The pleasures of winding up a younger sibling are, as you are no doubt aware, well known to me," says Mycroft, quietly. The tumbler hangs elegantly from his long fingers.

Greg gives a soft snort of amusement. "Sherlock's such a fun one to wind up, too," he grins. "Although –" he hesitates. "'M glad you two can do that, now."

Mycroft looks quickly away, and picks up the bottle. He refills their glasses.

Greg is opening his mouth to apologise when Mycroft says something unexpected.

"You have a habit of supporting me in the things that matter, Lestrade."

There's a moment of quiet, and Greg supposes he ought to feel embarrassed, somehow. But he doesn't.

He gives a quick half-shrug and looks up. Mycroft is watching him obliquely, from beneath lowered eyelashes. "Yeah." He's not sure what else to say. "'S'what people do."

Mycroft gives a quiet sigh. "Perhaps in your experience," he says, with wry, delicate humour. "This night again leaves me with the question of how to repay the debt I owe."

Greg shakes his head. "Don't think I don't notice how little red tape I have to deal with, compared to the other DIs," he says, looking straight into Mycroft's dark grey eyes. He gives a quick huff of laughter. "And anyway, not losing my job over the Barts case – after – after Sherlock?" he exhales. "D'you think I think I was just lucky?"

Mycroft smoothes the impeccable line of the crease in his trouserleg, long fingers restless. "Professional favours are one thing, Les– _Greg,"_ he corrects himself. "I regard myself as profoundly in your debt, personally." He swallows hard, and his knuckles are white around the whisky tumbler. "I am _deeply_ grateful for everything you have done for Sherlock."

The words, their gravity and sincerity, hang in the air between them. Greg takes a quiet breath. "Thank you," he says, seriously. "I appreciate that, Mycroft."

Mycroft glances away. "I shall check on Diana," he says, slightly jerkily. As he takes up his place at the half-open door of the suit closet, Greg allows his eyes to play over Mycroft's tall form. Over the silk back of his waistcoat, his slim-cut, perfectly-pressed trousers, his socked feet – a small vulnerability that makes his heart clench.

Mycroft half-turns, grey eyes soft with an expression that Greg has never seen before. Their gazes catch, and Mycroft blinks, once, twice.

Greg's breath catches in the back of his throat, and he takes a quick gulp of whisky.

"We have a further two kittens," murmurs Mycroft quietly, from his station by the closet door.

 

 

*

 

Fifteen minutes later, Greg gets up to make the check.

"What do you think?" Mycroft asks from the end of the bed, his voice tense. Greg watches for a moment, unsure.

"Maybe…" he murmurs. Diana has finished cleaning off the third - a gorgeous little brindled black-and-ginger thing, who Greg suspects might resemble its lothario father. The kitten is now squirming alongside its siblings at her tummy, nursing, but Diana doesn't seem to have settled. She's still restless in her breathing.

Greg glances back towards the bed. He wonders when Mycroft loosened his tie and cuffs.

"You know what?" he says. "I don't think we're done. I think there's more."

"Heaven help us…" Mycroft finishes his whiskey, reaching up to rub at the side of his neck. His eyes close briefly. "I am to be over-run," he says, tired. "I… understood that first time mothers commonly have only two or three…"

"Yeah…" Greg says, drawing back from the closet door. He eases his hands into his pockets. "But just like most people in your family, she doesn't know when to quit…"

Mycroft stifles another huff. He breathes it out with a sigh, stretches back his neck, and as Greg takes the empty tumbler out of his hand, he says,

"Please, Greg. No more whiskey. It's - affecting me." His eyes flash open suddenly. "I'm - keeping you," he says, gazing up at Greg from the end of the bed. "This is… lunacy. You should be at home asleep. You - … there's no need for you to - … I'm sure from here onwards - "

Greg looks down at him, feeling his heart thump. Those gently disheveled edges - the tie, the cuffs, the midnight imperfection of his hair, the tiredness beneath his eyes - are evoking the keenest longing in Greg to scruff up the rest of him, too. He wants to untuck that pristine shirt; crease the exquisite silk waistcoat; see those Saville Row trousers discarded in a crumpled mess beside the bed. He wonders what sort of things would unsettle Mycroft's carefully curated expressions, too. What would make him bite down at his own bottom lip until it was pink - what would make his face muscles tighten and shudder against their own volition - what would rise a deep and mottled blush beneath those cheeks.

The truth is that Mycroft's quite as sleek and gorgeous as his cats.

And right now, looking down at him in the glow of the antique bedside lamp, Greg has never felt more like a wild-eyed London alley tom.

"M'staying," he says. His voice is gentle; his gaze is soft and dark. It might be the late hour, he thinks - it might be the whiskey - but Mycroft's chest seems to be rising and falling a little more deeply than normal. His eyes are wider. His stare is deeper.

Someone's left a bedroom window open, Greg thinks.

"I'll… go put the kettle on," he murmurs, before he can think anything else.

Mycroft gives the tiniest of nods, passing his tongue quietly over his lower lip. "Alright."

Greg makes tea. It gives him a few minutes on his own, which he needs - a few minutes to tell himself to behave. He finds his way around Mycroft's kitchen in the half-dark, unsurprised to find that everything is perfectly arranged where it should be.

When he returns to the bedroom, he finds that Mycroft has shed his tie. It's been discarded across the plush pillows of the bed. It lies there almost languidly, inviting Greg to imagine someone else lying there in its place. His few calming minutes in the kitchen are immediately negated.

"I'm a little concerned," Mycroft then says - and it cuts through the haze at once. Greg puts the tea beside the bed, and joins him at the closet door.

"What is it?"

Mycroft's gaze remains fixed on Diana - she's panting rather hard. He inclines his head towards Greg, who leans closer to catch the quiet words.

"She - seems to be - …" Mycroft's throat audibly closes for a moment. He takes shelter in the safety of medical language. "I suspect she is attempting to expel one of the - one of her offspring - and she is struggling to do so."

Greg slides his phone out of his pocket, googling quickly. He opens the first result and scrolls through, reading at speed.

"Have you seen the kitten?" he asks. "Is it on its way?"

Mycroft winces a little. "Yes, it's - …"

" - in the birth canal."

"Yes."

"Right. How long has it been there?"

"About - ten minutes." Mycroft pales. "Diana is tiring. She's exhausted. I - I don't know what to - "

Greg's eyes flash over the next few paragraphs on his phone.

It's not easy to read.

But the hardest part is the final sentence - the one that says a kitten in the birth canal is deprived of oxygen by pressure on the umbilical cord.

After fifteen minutes, it becomes a permanent deprivation.

Greg looks up into Mycroft's eyes - directly into them - and says,

"There's instructions."

Mycroft immediately turns the colour of old milk.

"She just needs a hand," Greg says. His voice and face are a wall of calm, even as his heart bangs in panic against the front wall of his chest. "I'll do it, if you can't. All we need is a soft cloth. It looks straight-forward."

Mycroft stares at him - gapes, horrified - no sound comes out as he attempts to speak.

"If we don't do it soon," Greg says, "then the kitten won't make it. We'll lose one."

"I - …" Mycroft suddenly stiffens. Resolve sets his jaw. "I shall get a cloth."

Diana looks up fretfully as Mycroft first enters the sanctuary of the closet. She yowls at him in distress, and Greg's heart nearly shreds itself in two at the sound that Mycroft lets out in response.

"Oh - _Diana_ …" Mycroft kneels to her in despair. His hands are shaking as he strokes her head, his voice breaking. "Sweetheart - it - it's _alright…_ it's all alright…"

Greg kneels in silence beside the open drawer. He feels like he's about to fucking pass out, but as he takes the cloth and edges nearer, he finds his hands are suddenly steady as a rock. He can almost hear his grandmother's voice. It's like she's in the room.

"Just keep talking," he says to Mycroft, calm. "Just keep comforting her. You're both okay. It's going to be alright."

_Grasp gently by hips or shoulders - not by legs or head. Pull in a motion that is backwards and downwards._

Gently, Greg grasps - and holy _shit_ , how can anything in the world feel so _small?_ How can anything feel so _fragile?_ Is this really fucking happening? But then he realises those tight, fretful breaths he can hear are not Diana, they're _Mycroft,_ as he attempts to hold in his frightened tears - and Greg can't cope with the alternative to doing this - he can't cope with the thought of not succeeding - and so he gently pulls in a motion that is backwards and downwards.

For a few awful moments, he thinks it's already too late. He can't feel the little cat moving in his hands. He gathers it in the cloth regardless and pulls the membrane gently from its tiny face, and rubs the small shape with the towel to dry it - to stimulate breathing, like the website says.

_Please. Please, God, no._

_Please don't make me have to tell him that._

And then he feels the kitten take a breath - feels it squirm a little as he rubs it - and he hears his grandmother's voice murmur, somewhere in the depths of his heart, _Good lad Greg._

And that's the thing that starts him crying.

It's the sight of Greg crying that starts Mycroft crying.

For the next fifteen minutes the only person with any sort of emotional stability is Diana, who makes sure her final kitten is nursing and then finally settles to rest in Mycroft's sock drawer, exhausted but at peace.

Greg makes tea. It's all he can fucking think to do.

Mycroft comes to make tea, too.

They're both so shaken that as Greg pours the hot water out into mugs, he's startled by the milky-white shade he's somehow produced - and it takes him several seconds to realise he forgot to add any tea bags.

Mycroft stares down at the two cups of hot, diluted milk Greg has just made.

Greg stares back at Mycroft.

Mycroft covers his mouth with a snort - his eyes crease at the edges. Greg realises with a sudden leaping of his heart that he's watching Mycroft Holmes start to laugh.

"Jesus - actual _Christ."_ Greg's face breaks open into a grin. "That was - …"

 

*

 

Mycroft laughs, bringing both hands up to cover his face for a moment. Knees suddenly a little weak with relief, with the ebb of adrenaline, he crosses to the kitchen table, pulls out a chair and sits down. He rests his hands on the smooth, wooden surface, relishing the feel of something solid and uncomplicated.

There's a purring _miaow_ as Persephone unfolds herself from the kitchen chair next to Mycroft, and clambers, stretching, onto his lap. She rubs against his chest, tail curling up over his shoulder.

He huffs a small sound of amusement. "I cannot understand why she sleeps here," he says, with a quick, awkward glance to Greg. "It is hardly the most comfortable bed at her disposal."

Greg grins. "Cats," he says. "They do what they like."

Mycroft strokes a hand gently down Persephone's back. "You missed all the excitement, my dear," he says, working a long finger under her chin. "We have somehow acquired a further four feline companions."

Greg crosses to the table, putting two mugs of tea down between them. Mycroft's brain says, quietly: _he started again. He washed out the mugs, and made proper cups of tea. He did not simply waste teabags by throwing them into the diluted milk._

"Say when," murmurs Greg, holding the milk carton over Mycroft's cup of tea.

Mycroft indicates how much milk is enough, and Greg adds some to his own tea too. He puts the milk away in the fridge, then returns to sit down, taking the chair opposite Mycroft's. He sits back and runs a hand through his hair, dark brown eyes crinkled with tired amusement. "Bloody hell," he says, expressively, making deliberate eye contact.

"Indeed," says Mycroft. Quickly, he glances down, giving Persephone a last tickle under the chin before reaching for the mug of tea with both hands. He has a slight suspicion that the mug might shake if he lifted it with just one. The aftermath of pounding adrenaline and fear still fizzes coldly down his spine.

Greg glances at his watch and blows out a long breath. "'S'nearly four," he says. "God. What a night."

Mycroft sits up, back straight. "You must need to get home immediately," he says, stiffly. "Please allow me to order my car –" He starts to shift as though to get up, despite the firmly-immovable complaints of Persephone.

Greg stills him with a gesture. "'S'alright, Mycroft," he says, eyes crinkling warmly. "Honestly. I'll get going shortly, but I'd love to finish this cuppa first."

"I – of course," says Mycroft, eyes fixed on the tabletop again. "You do not have to go to work today?"

Greg sighs. "Well, I do work some Saturdays, for my sins, but I'm not going to make this one of 'em." He smiles. "You?"

Mycroft flicks an eyebrow, slightly confused by the return of the question. "I – _should_ do some work –" he says, slowly. "I suspect that I shall do so at home, however."

Greg takes a gulp of tea and nods. There's a slightly awkward pause. "Listen," he says, as though breaking his own restraint. "What you were saying about – about being in my debt." He flicks his eyes up to Mycroft's, then back down to his own hands, wrapped around the mug. "You're not, you know."

Mycroft interrupts, his heart twisting. "On the contrary, Greg. On a number of fronts, I owe you…" Tired, drained, he allows himself a rare unfinished sentence. _So much._

Greg shakes his head, chewing the side of his bottom lip. Seeming to make a decision, he takes a breath, and looks Mycroft straight in the eyes. "Dinner," he says, and then gives a quick, self-deprecatory half-smile. "I mean – buy me dinner, then. Somewhere. And we'll call it quits."

Mycroft blinks, several times, heart suddenly speeding. _Do not be ridiculous. An entirely reasonable request. A perfectly collegiate dinner, which we will doubtless spend talking almost entirely about Sherlock._ "When would be convenient for you, Detective Inspector?" he asks, somewhat blankly. "I may have to request my secretary to arrange the time –"

"Nah, I mean –" Greg gives a quick smile and waves a hand. "Tomorr– Christ, _tonight,_ it is now. Let's just – go out somewhere. Dinner. Drinks. After this night, we deserve it."

Mycroft blinks again, then looks down at the surface of his tea. "I – am afraid I cannot leave the cats," he says, stiffly. He glances up, through his eyelashes, and sees that Greg's expression has closed, eyes fixed on the table. His heart twists, and he is speaking before he knows what to say. "But – I –" he manages, and he can feel his cheeks tinting, "you could – come here. I could cook." He does not dare even to look obliquely at Greg. His heart thumps painfully in his chest.

Greg's voice is warm, full of surprise. "Yeah, I – that'd be great. Good to, y'know, see the kittens and everything again, too –"

Mycroft nods, and risks a quick glance up. Greg's eyes are dark and soft.

"D'you want me to – um, bring wine or anything?" he asks.

"No, I am sure there will be something appropriate here," says Mycroft. "I should –" he motions vaguely to the sink. "I should take Diana some water, and perhaps a little food. Do you wish to see her again, before – or –"

Greg glances at his watch again. "Nah, I'll – I should probably –" he gives a quick grin. "Oh go on then. One last look."

He and Mycroft share a smile as they get up from the table.

In the bedroom, Mycroft passes Greg the dishes of water and food, and picks up his mobile phone from the bedside table, sending a quick text.

In the suit closet, Diana gives a proud _miaow._ Mycroft kneels down and holds out the water bowl, and she takes a long, lapping drink. She doesn't seem as fussed by the food, curling herself back around her tiny, blundering kittens. They leave the bowl next to her anyway, and tiptoe back out.

At the front door, Greg grins. "Right, so I'll – see you tonight. Did we say a time, or –"

"Perhaps – seven-thirty," says Mycroft tentatively. "If that suits."

"Definitely," smiles Greg. "And you're sure you don't want me to bring anything?"

"Really, Insp– Greg," Mycroft corrects himself. He gives Greg a small smile. "My car is downstairs, expecting to drive you home," he adds.

"Honestly, you don't need to –"

"I insist."

Greg gives in. "Oh, alright. Long night," he says, easily. "Thank you."

"Until tonight," says Mycroft, a little awkwardly. "Thank you again for – this."

"See you later," grins Greg, lifting one hand in a wave as he heads for the stairs.

 

_The End_

 

 


End file.
